


It's a funny concept, really.

by usedtobeablackbird



Category: All Time Low (Band)
Genre: Anxiety, Depersonalization, Depression, High School, High School AU, I'm Sorry Alex, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Out of Character, Social Anxiety, Suicidal Thoughts, a lot of thinking, actually its me, and everyone else who sees this, au all time low, depression i guess, derealisation, i put my thoughts on teenage alex whoops, i really dont know how to tag, it's really just a rant, its my own character, or post for that matter, so much, third person perspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-03-19 13:18:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13705278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usedtobeablackbird/pseuds/usedtobeablackbird
Summary: Alex knows it’s not good. He knows he should know better, but he doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t know what words he puts out, doesn’t know which bars are gonna be hit next, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what this will be, how long it’ll be, how many words this will have, he is so clueless. So clueless and so innocent and so evil and so knowing and so naïve but so fucking clueless.





	It's a funny concept, really.

**Author's Note:**

> So this came over me? I don't know why, it's really just a train of thoughts that go through my head daily, projected onto Alex (very subtly though his name is like mentioned once), I'm not diagnosed with anything, so I tagged what I think I might have (I've done research because my mom won't let me go to a therapist) but if you have any other things that i might wanna tag, hmu! I don't really know what to put as tw, so I'm just gonna say it involves suicidal thoughts, implied/referenced self harm, (social) anxiety, derealization/depersonalization.. also I'm not a native english speaker, so I really hope i didn't make too many mistakes.. so.. enjoy!! :')

Alex knows it’s not good. He knows he should know better, but he doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t know what words he puts out, doesn’t know which bars are gonna be hit next, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what this will be, how long it’ll be, how many words this will have, he is so clueless. So clueless and so innocent and so evil and so knowing and so naïve but so fucking clueless. He doesn’t remember being young. He doesn’t remember having a plan. He doesn’t know how to forget oneself. He doesn’t know so many things everyone else seems to have figured out. He doesn’t know who he is, he doesn’t know what’s wrong and what’s right and why people are not necessarily right or wrong. He knows. He wants his boxes back. He wants his simple life back, without the complexity everyone as intelligent as him rubs in his face. 

He wants to be him for once. He doesn’t know shit. He fears that they might know more about him than he does. He wants to be good. He just wants to be good and find his place and do what he loves for a living. He thinks that’s too much to ask and then he thinks of Instagram and lovely people telling him it’s not. He scoffs. He doesn’t know what to believe. He wants to keep believing what he always did, because it’s comfortable, but he wants to believe them too, because that would mean he’s free. He fears he’s not free too often. He fears a lot of things when he thinks about it. He doesn’t know if that is normal. For him, that’s reality, and living his life means fear.

He fears he didn’t lock the door even though he did it 10 seconds ago and going back and checking and locking it again for good measure and then imagining it’s not locked but not turning around again because that would mean he’s sick, his brain is sick, _of course the door is locked I just locked it twice._ Then he turns around and finally leaves his porch but what if his window isn’t closed so he hurries to the backyard and looks and it’s closed and checks the other windows for good measure because he’s here. He’s also fearing spiders climbing on him and growing really fast and he hates his imagination because it cannot kill something, he can only send the massive spider to Australia every night and shrink her.

He loves his imagination because it’s so vivid. He hates that he doesn’t know if anyone likes him. He hates that he kind of likes to be depressed. He doesn’t know if that’s normal. He doesn’t know about religion and why he doesn’t necessarily like it. He feels bitter about it. He thinks he’s more of an agnostic person, but honestly, he doesn’t know. He likes feeling cloudy. He likes writing when he feels cloudy and detached because writing and reading are just like that. Cloudy and detached. 

He doesn’t know how feeling real works anymore. He used to, but he can’t remember how it felt. He remembers that he did feel real though. When he thinks of feeling real, sun is there, and old bricks, and rough texture, and hotness and sweat and water and a smell, and it’s multiple senses at once and it’s been a while since he’s been aware of all five of his senses, or aware of his body, for that matter. It’s been ages since he’s last been real. 

He doesn’t know what to make of life. Is life even reality? He often feels like in a simulation, but he’s pretty sure he’s the only one who feels like that. 

He likes to sweat. He likes to smell sweaty because at least he smells like something and he doesn’t feel like he’s not real, and he likes wearing tight clothes because they provide sensations constantly and they hug him really tight and make sure he doesn’t float away, he loves wearing T-Shirts and short sleeves and long sleeves that are easy to push up and he likes short pants and no socks because there’s more exposed skin to remind him he’s real, and he doesn’t like jackets or coats or anything that’s thick and covering his body because it takes away sensations that might remind him that he’s real. 

No wonder he doesn’t like winter. He likes winter when it’s mild though, when he can walk the 20 meters between the car and the school without his coat and with freezing and cold wind and mild sun and he loves to sit in the sun, even though it’s a bit too bright, because it’s not numb, it’s not grey, it’s the positive extreme, just like freezing is the other. 

He doesn’t know since when he is like that. He doesn’t really know when he’s gotten bad. He doesn’t know since when he’s depressed, he doesn’t know a time where he didn’t feel that numb and alone and lonely and just overall empty, he doesn’t fucking know since when music is the only thing that makes him feel, he doesn’t know if he’s even that bad as he thinks he is, he doesn’t know since when he’s so aware of how unreal he is, he doesn’t fucking know, he’s so clueless. So, so clueless. 

Maybe he’s not meant for this world. 

These thoughts swirl in his head for a while now, more than a year now. In four months, it will be two years. He knows that his thoughts were worse though, so most of the time he’s not really worrying. 

He still feels drawn to painting on his wrist. He doesn’t dare touching his wrist though, he’s clean for six months and six days and he won’t ruin it by touching his wrist. Even if it just would be a pen drawing a butterfly on his wrist because it would look beautiful there but he can’t draw with his left hand so if he would want to draw on one of his wrists it would be the left but he can’t because there’s scars and he’s afraid he won’t be able to stop himself because the blades are in the drawer next to cigarettes that he hadn’t touched in six months and six days and he planned that it would be more. Seven months, eight maybe. At least.

He sets small goals. Just one more month. The thought of never again scares him, because he knows how slow days pass, it’s his goal though, to never do it again. He just can’t tell his brain yet. 

He knows how slow time passes. He hears everybody complain about time running out, but he doesn’t feel that. Everything is so.. slow. Maybe that is because he’s doing so much. He’s never out there, drinking, how could he, but he’s in his room and with his sister and his brother and he’s playing his guitar, music swirling in his head, singing his heart out, he’s writing, he’s reading, he’s learning another language, because he’s bored, but he wouldn’t ever meet up. He doesn’t like meeting up. 

He likes people, but mostly as in watching people. He hates himself for that, because if he said that, everybody would think he’s a creep. He’s not though. He likes watching people because he likes to predict their personality and he likes to know what topics to avoid and he likes to know how to start a conversation and if he even wants to start one or if this person is just plain shit. Sometimes there are also people who are just interesting to watch. It’s like watching TV, but a little more intimate. He only does it at school though when the people are close to him. He doesn’t follow people, he just watches his surroundings. 

He sometimes thinks he’s a creep. Or crazy. Then he thinks that if you think you’re crazy, you’re not. Crazy people don’t think they’re crazy. Is it even okay to label people as crazy?

He got asked if he was emo yesterday. He didn’t know what to say, too caught up in his head, so he asked “What?” and the kid asked again. They were in 8th grade, maybe. He liked them, but he said no, because he didn’t know what to say. Today, he would’ve said “Define emo.” And then answered with “Maybe, but I don’t really like labels.” And he maybe missed a really good conversation. He’s feeling guilty about that, because it was clear that the kid looked for someone with same interests. He would’ve loved being that for the kid. He feels sorry. He also wants somebody to share his interests.

But no. He’s a fuckup. He doesn’t get the chance because his brain is too quick to comprehend what the kid was saying. He will try to talk to the kid again, but there are so many people at his school and everyone stares at him when he goes through the corridors bevause he’s weird and he’s a senior and he’s edgy and he’s only here for two more months, because then there’s study leave and then graduation exams… and he’ll be gone. He missed his chance. Like always. 

Why does anyone put up with him? Why? Seriously, why does he even have friends? He wouldn’t want to be his friend. Then again, define friend. What makes a friend a friend? How do you become friends? Why do you even _need_ friends? **To feel safe.** He doesn’t know if that’s the right reason to need friends, but he’s dealt with so many toxic people and friends that he thinks he might be toxic and there’s really only one person who he loves and who he cares about and who he doesn’t want to leave.

She will though, and surprisingly, he’s fine with her leaving to study abroad, because she’s pursuing her dreams and he knows that he will do that too, and he doesn’t care what city she’s in and what city he’s in, because they’re friends, they’re soulmates, they just get each other and they are in tune with each other. Just like he is with his guitar, and his room. 

If he’s being honest, his room is the only place where he doesn’t feel anything that’s even remotely close to anxiety. He feels content. He feels complete. He feels safe, he feels free. Safe. Safe is an important word to him. He rarely feels the grounding feeling in his stomach and the last time he felt it was shortly before his former best friend told him she didn’t understand his feelings and he was toxic, and it wasn’t valid for him to feel like that, because he makes her feel worse. So yeah, he gets scared when he feels safe outside of his room. And even in his room, it’s hard to feel it entirely. It kind of feels like he’s in his own world though. 

He has to think of space. He always liked space. He also thinks that people who say Aliens don’t exist are kind of stupid, because _have you seen how big this universe really is?_ He recommends a buzzfeed video he’s seen. He accepts it, when people don’t believe in aliens. He doesn’t really believe in a higher authority (like god) or world peace or capitalism, so he thinks it should be okay to not believe in aliens. 

He believes in a lot of shit, when he’s being completely honest. He doesn’t really know why, and he thinks it’s making him naïve. He would love to do a lie detector test, just to see what he truly believes in. He’s so unsure. He doesn’t know. 

There it is again. He’s clueless. It’s like a circle. You begin clueless and end up being clueless, because even though you learn, the things you have to figure out right now will always be too hard, so you’re clueless again. 

It’s a funny concept, he thinks.


End file.
